The Book of Marie

by Terry Kay

  He struggled to say the word, heard it come out in a whisper: No.

  She put her hand across his mouth. Don’t talk, she ordered. We’ll fight over it later, but right now, I’m going to feel as guilty as I want to. She began to massage his chest, the way a mother would massage a child ill with flu—as though the touch had healing in it.

  Half the faculty and townspeople are in the waiting room, she added quietly. The others have come and gone, including that insane group of men who call themselves the Superior Court. I tried to get them all to leave, but they won’t. I think the wrong word got out. I think they believe you’re the Pope or some rock star. It wouldn’t surprise me if the cheerleading squad showed up. I’m sure they’d already be here if they weren’t on Christmas break.

  He could feel the smile, or the half-smile, rise again in his face. He licked his lips, said in a hoarse voice, Did you read it?

  She lifted her hand from his chest, hestitated. Then she said, Yes. Yes, damn it. I wish I hadn’t. I found it last night after I went by your home to make sure I’d locked it. I cried for an hour. What’s wrong with you? Why would you keep all of that bottled up? If we weren’t here and if you weren’t so damned defenseless, you’d get a lecture you’d never forget.

  He frowned, asked, How long—?

  Have you been here? she said. Two nights. But it’s only eight o’clock in the morning, so it hasn’t been that long. Now, quit talking and quit thinking. You’ve got one thing to do now, and that’s to get well. If you die on me, I’ll never forgive you, Cole. Damn it, we’ve got a lot to talk about.

  All right, he whispered.

  He would be hospitalized for more than a week, would have surgery—performed without complications—to insert a stent in a damaged artery, and then he would be cared for at his home by his sisters, Amy and Rachel, with Tanya acting as hostess to them, the same as an interpreter leading strangers through a foreign city.

  His doctor would say to him, You shouldn’t worry too much about your condition, but you should be aware that what happened was a warning. Your lifestyle is going to change. I don’t like saying it, Dr. Bishop, but you’re not as young as you used to be.

  And there it was again for him. Age.

  In his writing, he again had played football and basketball and baseball, and his body had seemed as lean and as strong as it had been at seventeen. It was a trick, the remembering. The remembering had teased him, had made him subconsciously believe he had not changed.

  Having his sisters and Tanya around him, guarding him with warnings about over-doing anything from the simple lifting of a fork to the building of a fire in his fireplace, was annoying, even if he knew it was for his own good. He looked forward to being alone.

  Finally, it happened. His sisters left him after two weeks and Tanya returned to teaching during the day. She still visited him in afternoons—her acts of charity, she called the visits—yet he had many hours to himself. Blissful hours. Hours for reading, for rest.

  To his surprise, and wonder, Tanya did not mention his last entry in the writing of Marie Fitzpatrick—the story of the burning of Jovita’s home—until a late afternoon a week after his sisters had departed.

  Tell me something, Cole, she said. What you wrote about never going back into the town of Overton since that confrontation at the service station: is that true?

  Yes, it is, he answered. When I went home to visit, I always took backroads to the house. It was easy enough to do.

  What about the death of your parents and your brother? she asked. Wouldn’t they have been at a funeral home?

  Not in Overton, he said. After what happened to me, they started going to Elberton for most of their business. There was only a few miles difference between the two towns. A funeral home there handled the arrangements.

  You never saw Littlejohn?

  No, he replied.

  And you don’t know what happened to him?

  Regretfully, I don’t, he said. He paused, added, It was a busy time for me. I was away, working on my doctorate, and then I got the teaching position at Wofford and I was there two years before moving here. To be honest, I was trying to put all of it behind me, and it wasn’t easy. Back then, the picture of me holding Etta Hemsley had a life of its own.

  As I said before, a lot of people think that’s why you came here, she offered.

  He did not answer for a moment, and she knew he was taking an inventory of reasons. Finally, he said, It had a lot to do with it, yes.

  They were sitting at his kitchen table, drinking hot tea she had made without asking. It was an afternoon ritual for them, one he enjoyed. He liked the way she had gradually taken command of his home, making it part hers, like an hour-a-day wife. She had rearranged cooking utensils and dishware, doing so, she said, because it would be easier for him to get to them. No reason to strain yourself, she had lectured. He knew it had nothing to do with convenience; it had to do with her need to leave her signature on his life.

  Marie knew you well, didn’t she? she said casually.

  He looked at her inquisitively.

  In the letter you included, the one from her, she urged you to leave, Tanya added. She said you were a runaway at heart. I loved that letter, by the way.

  I suppose you’re right, he admitted. She did know me well, but she should have. As much as anyone—no, more than anyone—she influenced everything I’ve done.

  A soft smile eased into Tanya’s face. I believe you have just made a confession that’s as close to truth as you will ever get, she said. And maybe that’s what you needed to learn from the writing. I have colleagues who would call it closure. I think it’s just the opposite. I think it’s revelation, the great beginning. It’s always irritated me the way people look for closure. My God, getting to the truth—as vague as it always is—is an opening-up. It’s impossible to completely close out anything that happens to you, but we yammer on and on about it, don’t we? It sounds good, Cole, that’s all. I hear it constantly, people telling me that, yes, they’ve reached closure and three months later they’re still quaking over it, but they’d never admit it to anyone but me. They’ve already declared closure. It would be embarrassing to go back on that serene-sounding proclamation. I’ve done it myself. I told you about that worthless son of a bitch who claimed my virginity and then skipped town. I had closure with him the next time I made love, and all the times after that, and when I became engaged and when I got married—all of it was closure. But guess what, Cole? That miserable bastard still shows up occasionally in a dream. He looks like a Greek warrior caught skinny-dipping and I can’t wait for him to rip off my clothes in the backseat of a two-horse chariot. But then I wake up, and I know it will be a good day. It will be a good day because I tell myself that nothing happened, no matter how much he wanted me. I make a game of it. I am wearing a chastity belt made of polished steel.

  She paused, inhaled deeply, smiled triumphantly over her lecture. So there, she declared. If you want to know the true definition of closure, it’s a chastity belt made of polished steel.

  Sometimes you do sound wise, Tanya Berry, he told her.

  That’s Dr. Berry to you, she sneered. And if you’re making fun of me, you can kiss my ass.

  Do you use that kind of language with all your clients? he asked.

  Not if they pay me, she said. You don’t, so I say again, if you’re making fun of me, you can kiss my ass.

  Fun? he said. No, I wasn’t making fun. In fact, I was praising you.

  She shrugged, leaned across the table toward him. You’re feeling frisky, are you? she said.

  I feel completely healed, he told her.

  Would you like to make love? she purred, her tongue tipping seductively over her lips, a playful shine in her eyes.

  Are you an assassin? he said lightly. You’d kill me.

  Cole, I would make you feel like a god, she whispered.

  He could feel a blush tinting his face. All right, stop it, he replied.

  She leaned
back in her chair, picked up her cup of tea. Her gaze stayed on him. Who knows? she said. Someday, it could happen. If it does, I think it will be a splendid thing.

  Marie Fitzpatrick whispered in his ear from fifty years past, standing near the swings of a playground: I think I will regret not making love to you. Someday, I will.

  The blush burned in his face.

  Tanya laughed. Cole, my God, you’re blushing like a schoolboy. Are you really that shy?

  Maybe it’s the blush of excitement, he said.

  It should be, she replied. Then: All right, talk to me about something.

  What?

  Going home. I worry about you going home.

  Why?

  It won’t be easy, she said.

  Do you know something that I don’t? he asked.

  She smiled. I know you’re going to be looking for something that isn’t there anymore, and it’s going to bother you. You can call me any time, day or night, and talk about it, but here’s what I want you to do: I want you to keep writing. I know you think you don’t need to, but you do.

  Is that a personal suggestion, or a professional recommendation? he asked.

  She did not speak for a moment, then she said, Both, Cole. No matter what kind of nonsense you hear from people in my profession, you can never truly separate the two, even if you think you have. Why do you think counselors resort to counseling? We need it. Now do what I tell you. You’re my favorite, non-paying lunatic. I’ve got a right to be bossy.

  All right, he said quietly.

  EIGHTEEN

  2005

  The return to Overton for the fiftieth reunion of the Overton High School class of 1955, was a trip made of miles and memories. He drove it in a slow fashion, keeping the speed limits, taking time to see the unfolding of spring along the way—early green turning lush as he crossed from Vermont into New York near Ticonderoga, following the Tongue Mountain Range to bypass New York City by going west into Pennsylvania, then wiggling south into Maryland and Virginia and the Carolinas before crossing the Savannah River into Georgia.

  He had with him more clothes than he needed, a sign that he had been so long away from the South he did not clearly remember the seasons. And maybe it was also a sign that he was no longer an expatriate in Vermont, but had become a Vermonter.

  He had with him his letter jacket from his senior year at Overton High School, faded, yet still intact, the white O dingy against purple wool. In the lie of his imagination, he believed he could still smell the scent of Marie Fitzpatrick’s perfume in it.

  He had with him his briefcase, and in his briefcase, he had the framed photograph taken on prom night by George Fitzpatrick, the photograph of him standing beside Marie, an awkward smile covering his face, a look of radiance resting on hers.

  And he had the letters.

  Her letters. And one of his own, one never mailed.

  He would not share the letters, or the photograph, as part of the show-and-tell of the reunion celebration. He had them for his own need.

  On the drive, he thought of Marie’s lamentation about her unplanned return to Overton, done on a whim, without reason. She had been sorrowful about not having had a permanent home in her childhood, had said, If I had a hometown, I think I might enjoy visiting it. Going home must be wonderful.

  Marie’s dreamy wish for a home, a place to visit, had greatly affected him. It was a revealing confession, one of the few times she ever permitted him to glimpse into the sealed-off soul of the little girl she must have been.

  Yet, for Cole, going home had never been easy, the guilt of each visit settling on him like a shroud. He had broken his promise that his move to Vermont would be temporary, that he would not lose touch with his heritage. It had been done to calm the fretting of his mother. He had told her jokingly that in the modern age of the twentieth century airplanes actually flew in and out of Vermont and he had vowed to make use of them. Don’t worry, he had said. You’ll see more of me than you think.

  It had been a lie—or Marie Fitzpatrick’s mendacity at work. Not an intentional lie, but a lie still. He had seldom returned to Georgia after settling in Vermont.

  His sister, Amy, reminded him of his failure. She said, How many times have you been home in the last ten years, Cole? Three by my count. A funeral each time—Mama, Daddy, Toby.

  Her words were painful for him.

  You’re wrong, he countered. Four times. The Christmas after Mama died, I was here. Remember? It was in 1994, right before Holly and I separated for good. She went on that skiing vacation to Denver with a couple of her friends, which should have given me some clue about what was going on with her, since we were ass-deep in snow in Vermont.

  I don’t want to talk about Holly, Amy said.

  Cole reached across the space separating their lounge chairs and patted her hand. She had never liked his ex-wife.

  We were all here, he added. Rachel and Wally came down from Virginia. You and Jake had just moved back to Atlanta from Arizona. All the kids were here. I liked that Christmas. It was good. I’m glad Holly had other plans.

  Yes, Amy said softly.

  He could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. I miss them, she added. Mama, Daddy, Toby. I can’t tell you how much I miss Toby.

  Me, too, he replied.

  They sat for a moment in silence. The patio, screened-in and added to the family home by Amy and her husband, Jake, was cool in the afternoon. Amy had called it a playroom for their grandchildren, but mostly it was said as a wish. Her only child, a daughter, lived in Tucson, and she seldom saw her two grandsons.

  I still can’t believe the timing of it, she said. October. Why did they all die in October, three years apart? What is it about October and bad hearts? Every October I go to the doctor. After Daddy died, I tried to get Toby to do the same thing, but he only laughed it off. Well, I can tell you one thing, after the scare you gave us over Christmas, when October rolls around this year, I’m going to be wherever you are and I’m going to drag you to the doctor. Do you understand me?

  I understand, he said, knowing an argument was useless.

  Do you hear from Karen? he asked, wanting to change the subject. Karen was Toby’s widow. She had remarried a man named Ted Goodlove and had moved to Athens.

  A card now and then, she answered. Christmas. Easter. My birthday. I see her about twice a year.

  Too bad they didn’t have children, he said.

  She couldn’t, Amy replied.

  I know, he said. But it didn’t seem to bother Toby. He was a practical man, I guess. Sometimes I used to think we were from different families, practical as he was, and the dreamer that I was.

  Amy’s look was surprise and disappointment. What do you mean? He was a dreamer, too, as much a dreamer as you ever were.

  Toby? he said. Our Toby? Toby of the tractor?

  My God, Cole, sometimes you amaze me, she sighed. Do you think there’s only one kind of dreamer?

  I just—

  She interrupted with a wave of her hand. Do you know those things you can buy at gift shops? What do you call them? You put them above your bed. Dream-catchers. That’s it. An Indian thing, or maybe it’s not. Maybe it was something invented by a Polish immigrant with a good eye for merchandising. It doesn’t matter. It’s like a little hoop with some kind of net attached to it. Beads and feathers to give it a touch.

  Anyway, I like them, she added emphatically. Or the idea of them. Let me tell you the difference between you and Toby. Your dream-catcher would look like the net of a shrimper—this big, unrolling thing with holes in it large enough to let small fish swim free. That’s the kind of dream-catcher you’d want, Cole, a dream-catcher for big dreams. That wasn’t Toby. His dream-catcher would have been the size of a tea strainer. He loved the small dreams, little everyday things, like plants that bloomed, the way dirt smelled, a smile from somebody on the street.

  She shook her head gravely. Oh, no, Cole, you’re wrong. Toby was a wonderful dreamer, a great dreamer.

>   You’re right, he said shamefully after a moment.

  Let’s talk about something else, she whispered. I’ll have nightmares about Toby all night.

  All right, he said.

  Do you remember Art Crews? she asked. You were in school with him. At least he said you were.

  He settled against his chair and thought of the writing he had done about Art and his other classmates. He remembered also that Art had not spoken to him after the incident at the prom.

  Sure, he said. We were good friends at one time. You know him?

  We go to church together, she replied. He’s in construction, building houses. I don’t think the church could get along without him. He does all the up-keep.

  Art? he said with surprise.

  That’s the great thing about religion, Cole. It doesn’t care when you find it, she said. He won’t rub your face in it, but Art’s one of the most Christian people I know. He’s always helping the down-and-out.

  Still married to Sally? he asked.

  She laughed. Oh, my Lord, that ended twenty years ago, or longer. She ran off with a man she met in Anderson, South Carolina, on one of her shopping trips—a policeman who stopped her for speeding. Art’s been a bachelor ever since, but he does have a lady friend, as we politely call her. He just doesn’t know how desperate she is to move past friendship.

  She paused and laughed again. Anyway, he said he’d like to see you before the reunion.

  He knows I’m already here?

  She looked at him regretfully. I’m sorry. I let it slip you were coming home early.

  It’s all right, he said. I’ll see him, but later. I just got here, and all I’m going to do is to plant my toes in the dirt of this farm, and see if a little bit of what I used to be will sprout. I don’t want to go anywhere or see anyone for a while.

  Then, don’t, Amy said.

  He dropped back in his chair and looked through the opened door to the kitchen. He could sense the presence of his mother standing by the counter, rolling out dough for biscuits. It’s been a long time, he said. I feel like a stranger.